


As If A Phantom Caress'd Me

by convolutedConcussion



Series: Everything is Whitman and Nothing Hurts [4]
Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Erik Is A Sad Old Man Okay, Introspection, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:25:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As if a phantom caress'd me,<br/>I thought I was not alone, walking here by the shore;<br/>But the one I thought was with me, as now I walk by the shore--the<br/>one I loved, that caress'd me,<br/>As I lean and look through the glimmering light--that one has utterly<br/>disappear'd,<br/>And those appear that are hateful to me, and mock me. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	As If A Phantom Caress'd Me

If he were a dishonest man, and he is not, he would say that this place has no meaning to him aside from the beauty of the scenery. He would tell those who follow him, who believe in his cause and fight, that he has only ever visited this place alone. But these things are lies, and he does not lie, at least not to himself and he certainly does not offer explanation to any. Time has changed the man as time has changed the scene. The beach was once lush with life, unpopulated by man. It was a secret place. A place where memories, one week of bliss in a lifetime of pain and doubt--yes, doubt, an old man like him can admit that fault of himself--and search of revenge, had been made and stored in a place that no one, not even him, no one can touch. Now it is cold, barren for the winter. People have moved in and frightened away the wildlife and cut away the foliage. The man feels very old now, even as he walks straight-backed and sure-footed. His hands, dry and rough, are clasped behind his back. His skin is goosepimpled beneath the thin linen of his shirt but it makes him feel alive.

There is a spot where a jagged rock thrusts out of the sea, taller than the others, where the waves churn just so, and he stops on the sand where once, twice, countless times they stopped together, to survey the tableau before him. "Beautiful," he hears himself from times long forgotten say. Then he had not been speaking of the landscape. He'd had eyes for none but his companion, whose eyes were as clear blue as the cloudless sky on a winter day. "Beautiful," he says now, voice low. He sits now, where they would sit. The chill of the sand seeps through his clothes and makes his joints ache, but he knows true pain and will not budge for something as insignificant as minor discomfort.

He allows his eyes to fall closed and he can see himself as he was then, young and lean. Angry and searching. And yet, here, he had been different as time had stopped for him. His pain had been pushed to the side in favour of more pleasurable pursuits. He can see the other, in all his sweetness and naivete, in all his perfection. He sees him in varying states, clothed and naked, in the throes of passion and in the middle of a spirited debate, pensive and impulsive. These shades of the man overlap in his mind and paint a confused, agonizing picture in his mind. He sees this man at once in every way he has ever seen him within his mind's eye. The pain is exquisite, and he is gasping with it.

And then he can feel it, hands and lips feather-soft all over him, as if a ghost were replaying for him every touch that had ever been bestowed upon him by that man and his chest burns at it. He can feel a soft, warm cheek beneath his thumb, the weight of a skull cupped in his hand, wet lips parted just beneath his fingertips. All of these things he can feel as if they were there, right now, his for the taking yet again. His fists clench and unclench on his knees.

Then there's the weight, heavy and sure, of a hand on his shoulder and it draws a gasp from him for in that instant he cannot quell the spark of hope in his heart. But then the illusion is shattered, the memories are gone, real no more, and a woman he's known since she was only an unsure girl, scared and misunderstood by those who loved her most, is telling him that he is needed. Now he must stand, irrationally detesting all those who dare not be that man, and go away with her, leaving this place of phantoms and broken hearts for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> In keeping with the general theme, this was inspired by the poem As If A Phantom Caress'd Me by Walt Whitman.
> 
> I can't help writing all this sad, guys.


End file.
